


Moon-pearls and Kyber

by Severnlight



Series: Swords and Starflowers [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Reveal AU, first meeting AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:16:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25555687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severnlight/pseuds/Severnlight
Summary: In a medieval world where the Empire has waged a bitter war on all Force-wielders, the sudden appearance of a young mage with hidden powers has grievously disrupted the Emperor's plans. Lord Vader has been chasing restlessly after this elusive Rebel for over a year, and after many failed capture attempts, he has finally set a trap that his foe won't be able to evade.
Relationships: Luke Skywalker & Darth Vader
Series: Swords and Starflowers [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1838371
Comments: 26
Kudos: 132





	1. Darth Dad and Sunshine Son, Medieval Edition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SpellCleaver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpellCleaver/gifts).



> This series of one-shots takes place in a parallel universe to SpellCleaver's [Tenterhooks](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24812881). In these two universes, 90% of things are the same, 10% are different, and the ratio varies daily on authors' discretion. 😁

In a different Universe, Darth Dad is an angry magelord, who has recently "retrieved" his little suspecting son from the Rebellion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gifted this drawing to the lovely SpellCleaver and she wrote [Tenterhooks](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24812881), an absolutely beautiful one-shot based on it. If you haven't read it yet - I highly, more than highly, recommend it!!


	2. Hearts of Kyber

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In a medieval world where the Empire has waged a bitter war on all Force-wielders, the sudden appearance of a young mage with hidden powers has grievously disrupted the Emperor's plans. Lord Vader has set a trap for him and restlessly awaits his next move._
> 
>   
> “I did come alone just as you asked, when you gave your word to free my comrades! Now, why don’t you do your part and follow through!”
> 
> One of Veers’ knights rushed forward and kicked the boy in the shins. The rebel dropped with a gasp, his knees slamming hard on the icy path. A sword came swiftly in contact with his shoulder - a clear hint that he ought to remain down.
> 
> “You will address Lord Vader with respect, scum!”
> 
> Vader glanced at the kyberblade in Veers’ hand once more, then stepped closer to examine the prisoner. This time, the boy did shiver under his scrutiny. Vader smirked and turned to his general. 
> 
> “You heard our guest, Veers. Ride towards camp and give the order to release his ragtag band of… friends. And Organa, too. But first,” he paused, “do cut him loose and return his blade. It appears he came to me in the mind to fight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge shout-out to my wonderful beta [Fangs_Fawn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fangs_Fawn/pseuds/Fangs_Fawn)! Your comments and advice were invaluable!  
> And many thanks to [Mokulule](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mokulule) for clearing up arm-stabbing mechanics with me.😁

* * *

Huddled close, the prisoners clutched the iron bars of their cages with frost-bitten fingers, their gazes set on the West. If a certain Rebel did not come to camp and surrender by dusk, Vader had vowed to begin executing them one by one. Their hopes of rescue dimmed with the last lingering moments of the sunset. 

The sinking sun scattered its rays like liquid flames on the glittering snowfields, and Viceroy Organa, the leader among the condemned, took in the sight with tears of reverence. He breathed in the crisp air and wiped his eyes. He had already made peace with his impending death — he just prayed to the Great Mother that the execution may not be averted by the sudden appearance of that infinitely lucky but reckless child Vader had gone to such inordinate lengths to pursue. The viceroy hoped his daughter had used all her sense to talk the boy out of surrender. And even more feverishly, he prayed that Leia hadn’t gotten the idea to join him here herself, should he persist in enacting his suicide by heeding Vader’s ultimatum. Organa exhaled a shaky breath. His last sunset was indeed beautiful, surely a Goddess-granted mercy.

The cages lay in a straight row at the bottom of a weathered hill. An elite battalion of Imperial troops was stationed nearby on guard, their armor bearing Vader’s sigil along with the Imperial cog. Atop the hill, in stark contrast to the colorful skies, loomed the dark figure of their magelord, his black cloak flapping in the wind like an angry war banner. On his head, the man wore a full-face daemon mask crowned with jagged thorns of embersteel, and his finely wrought scale armor scattered the fading echoes of sunlight like fireflies.

How Lord Vader had risen to such prominence in the Empire was the source of many a hushed legend, and why he never took that helmet off was its own never-ending font of rumors. One thing the whispers agreed on: few of his subordinates had seen his true face, and for those who had, the event often portended the premature end of their mortal journey. 

And so the Emperor’s most trusted enforcer stood atop of his hill, shrouded in legend and spite, gaze locked firmly on the sunset. The only motion one could perceive from him was his gauntleted hand, repeatedly rapping the pommel of a longsword. His other hand remained under the folds of the cloak, with a tight grip on another hilt that emanated a faint red glow – a giveaway of the short kyberblade of a war mage.

As the last sliver of the sun struggled to hold onto the horizon, a rider burst out from the forest and rushed for the clearing beneath the hill at full gallop. The knight dismounted before his horse had fully come to a stop and ran up the slope, oblivious to the calls of the other soldiers.

“My lord!” He struggled for speed under the weight of his armor. “My lord!”

The magelord made a languid turn towards the newcomer and awaited his approach without a word. Within a few steps of his commander at last, the man paused to catch his breath. Lord Vader’s voice edged out calm but icy behind the mask.

“Are we at a country fair, Colonel? Perchance you mean to sell me something by way of this shouting?” 

The knight blanched and dropped to one knee.

“Forgive me, Lord Vader,” he breathed, “I meant no disrespect.” 

Vader kept him kneeling for a few seconds, then spoke again:

“Do rise and give me your report, Venka. Calmly, if you can.”

Venka rose, saluted, and put all effort into keeping his voice even.

“The Rebel Toivo has surrendered, my lord. General Veers is bringing him to camp. They should be here within the half-hour.”

At a first glance, this revelation seemed to stir no reaction in Vader. 

“How predictable,” he rumbled, but his gloved hand finally let go of the pommel. “I trust you can lead the way?”

Colonel Venka lifted his gaze in surprise, but chose not to ask questions.

“Yes, sir.”

Both men descended the hill, hundreds of eyes upon them. The news of the knight’s arrival had already spread among the prisoners, and while some couldn’t suppress their whispers, others kept their heads low, trying to keep away from Vader’s scrutiny. He passed the cages without a glance and turned to the first officer in a lengthy line of subordinates who had snapped to attention to greet him.

“Piett. Take no action here and await my return.”

An officer of slight stature wearing the rank badge of high seneschal, Piett had the reputation of a man with a keen mind, and an even keener sense for survival. 

“As you wish, my lord,” he acknowledged, and stepped aside to make way for his commander.

Venka led Vader to the horses, and the two riders disappeared into the forest, leaving behind a trail of muddy snow. The war steeds’ hooves thundered over the frozen ground, and the chilly air bit unpleasantly at Venka’s exposed face. Soon the path led to a small clearing, sheltered under the giant canopy of a gnarly oak. With the sun now fully gone, darkness was taking hold fast in the thicket. 

The war mage suddenly stood up in his stirrups, as if sensing something ahead. Venka scanned their surroundings with unease. Clusters of silvery birch trees stood silent witness on each side of the path, with not a sound of animal nor bird to be heard. Lord Vader pulled the reins and motioned the colonel to halt as well. 

Vader felt a wave of unsettling magic stirred up by the prisoner ahead, and his pulse quickened. It was indeed the infamous Rebel prodigy with hidden Force magic who went under the pseudonym Toivo — which, Vader was told, meant hope in one of the Northern prefectures. The Rebel he had chased, and failed to capture, in the dry moats of the Death Star military base. The same Rebel who, after seven close encounters, had continued to elude him for nearly a year since. Vader smirked behind his mask. At last. He hoped the most edifying symbolic meaning of him crushing Toivo would not be lost on the Rebels.

He tried to savor the thought, but his curiosity was spiked beyond recall as the Force kept hinting of something paramount about to take place — an event to change all future events — with this vexing Rebel at the crux of it all. Agitated, Vader took several deep breaths. The Force had been wrong before.

The approach of other riders broke the silence, and shortly, general Veers and his retinue appeared in the clearing. Toivo followed on foot behind Veers’ dun mare, hands tied, flanked by eight of the general’s most trusted men. Veers spotted his superior, and the procession ground to an immediate halt.

“Lord Vader! We expected to greet you at camp, sir.”

Vader was in no mood for pleasantries. His attention went straight to Toivo, and what he saw only stirred his unease further. The nefarious rebel stood shackled in chains, as he ought to be. But he was just a child! If it was not for the unmistakable Force presence emanating from this whisper of a boy, Vader would have suspected that the Rebels had sent in a decoy to shield the real Toivo. 

He dismounted his horse, and everyone instantly followed. The freezing air in the clearing suddenly took a snipping edge, and in the near distance, tree bark burst open with startling pops.

“Report, General.”

“My lord. This is the Rebel - Toivo – who surrendered to us. He came armed, bearing only this.” 

Veers pulled a weapon from his belt and extended his arm with a short bow. Vader caught the unmistakable milky glint of a kyberblade. So, it was true: Toivo was not only gifted with magic, but it appeared some other traitor had managed to train him as well. 

The boy glared at him steadily, head held high. A fresh bruise was forming under his left eye – perhaps he had angered one of his captors. If he felt fear in Vader’s presence, he kept it well in check. Vader turned back to Veers.

“Good work, General. Send troops to scout the woods for his companions. It is unlikely he came alone.”

At this, Toivo took a step forward and lifted his chin to address him directly, in a tone of pure impudence.

“I did come alone just as you asked, when you gave your word to free my comrades! Now, why don’t you do your part and follow through!”

One of Veers’ knights rushed forward and kicked the boy in the shins. Toivo dropped with a gasp, his knees slamming hard on the icy path. A sword came swiftly in contact with his shoulder - a clear hint that he ought to remain down.

“You will address Lord Vader with respect, scum!”

Vader glanced at the kyberblade in Veers’ hand once more, then stepped closer to examine the prisoner. This time, Toivo did shiver under his scrutiny. Vader smirked and turned to his general. 

“You heard our guest, Veers. Ride towards camp and give the order to release his ragtag band of… friends. And Organa, too. But first,” he paused, “do cut him loose and return his blade. It appears he came to me in the mind to fight.”

Veers hesitated just for a split second before bowing his head in assent. He tossed the kyberblade in the snow near the prisoner, while one of the guards unshackled his hands. The boy rubbed his wrists briefly, grabbed his blade, and sprang to his feet, eyes ablaze. He looked up at Vader, steadied himself, then lifted his dagger in an approximation of a ritual gesture which caught the magelord by surprise, and which very few of the soldiers present still understood: blade held at chest height, tip pointed to the sky, left palm open underneath the hilt. Toivo's voice echoed into the silent twilight, and the words rang even more outlandish in his commoner accent:

“You are right! I did come here to fight, Lord Vader – I step forth to challenge you!" He paused, and when Vader did not immediately respond, decided to clarify: "To a duel!”

The soldiers exchanged fleeting glances of excitement and stepped back. Too bad they were unable to wager on exactly how many seconds the brat would last. Silent as a stone, Lord Vader took his time to stare the rebel up and down. Then, he unsheathed his own kyberblade, and held it point up atop his outstretched left palm. The boy took note of the proper hand position and instinctively adjusted his own. There was a hint of something not unlike amusement in Vader's voice when he extended the expected reply:

“I step forth to accept your challenge.”

As whispers all around reached his ears, Vader turned to his general.

“Leave us. I will handle this myself.”

Veers and the other soldiers hushed, their disappointment palpable, and reluctantly obeyed. They took just a bit longer than strictly necessary to jump on their horses and leave in the camp's direction. Vader waited for them to gain some distance while considering whether he should take pleasure in killing Toivo on the spot, or keep him captive as he had previously planned in hopes of turning him into something useful. Even if the Rebel’s head seemed thick, he could at the minimum serve as bait to draw some other terrorists out.

The boy, in the meantime, had taken an attack stance, dagger held close to his head in something that might have been intended as a reverse Shien grip. Vader did not bother to move into position at all, examining his foe’s movements at leisure. Toivo’s blade remained milky white under the pale moonlight - a sign that the child hadn’t even constructed this dagger himself! By now, it would certainly be glowing the color of the kyberstone embedded within if he had. 

The rebel wore an old chain link armor, evidently stolen from some dusty Imperial supply depot forgotten in the deep provinces, and his boots looked like they had needed to be replaced last winter. The Rebellion couldn’t even outfit their only war mage properly, but they had not failed to plaster their phoenix symbol in bright red over the armor’s pauldrons. That annoyed Vader more than the borrowed dagger with which this boy had come to challenge him. He glared at Toivo and his voice boomed behind the mask:

“You hold that blade like an untrained child. You have no right to it.”

“I have every right to it!”

“Really?… It is not even yours. What mage made it?”

“It is mine!” The boy spat out with venom. “And you should know who made it! Because  _you_ murdered him!”

Vader circled him with casual interest.

“Well. That hardly narrows things down.”

Toivo froze for a split second, then yelled out and lunged forward. Vader side-stepped him, grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm, then easily tore the blade out of his hand. The boy yelped. Vader placed a thumb on the pressure point beneath his index finger, and brought him to his knees, keeping his arm extended above his head in a painful twist.

“This is most pathetic. You are not worth the seconds it would take to finish you. What are you trying to accomplish, boy?”

“...your death!” Toivo bit out through gritted teeth, his fury unabated by the pain. Vader released his hold, then backhanded the brat with a gauntleted fist. He went sprawling on the ground, blood spraying on the snow from his split lip. As the boy struggled to regain his bearings from the blow, Vader took a moment for a closer look at the borrowed blade in question. The air froze in his lungs. 

“Wait… this kyberblade… I know this weapon…” he stared, shifted it around in his hand, then stared again, doubting his own eyes. The boy turned his gaze back on him, sharply. Vader sheathed his own kyberblade, then grabbed him by the collar, and hauled him straight up in the air. Toivo tried to fight off Vader’s arm and tear himself away, but the Dark Lord’s invisible grip suddenly closed in on his throat and he gasped for air.

“Where did you get this?” Vader hissed, voice like a whip. He loosened his chokehold just enough so the rebel could respond.

“Why?” The boy gulped in a full breath, then spat out bitterly: “You suddenly remember it now?"

“Do  _I_ remember it?… " The demonic mask loomed close over Toivo’s face, and a shiver trickled down the boy’s spine. “You dare challenge me with my own blade, whelp?!"

Toivo’s head whipped back, his eyes wide, his jaw suddenly slack. He let go of Vader’s arm as if it was on fire. He hung listlessly in the Dark Lord’s grip, stunned, like prey given up on fight in its predator’s clutches. The Force whirled and whispered to Vader that the crucial event he’d been warned about was about to unfold. But he did not expect what came next.

“It’s not your blade!” the child cried in a raw voice as he struggled to push him away, “It’s not yours!”

Vader tightened his hold on Toivo and examined the dagger again, numbly, just to make sure. His thumb trembled as it stroked the Naberrie moon-pearl starflower he had inlaid in the dark hilt to honor her. One of the petals was chipped, a piece gone missing. Fury blinded him as if a dam broke down in his head, and he rounded back on the boy.

“How dare you touch this! Who gave it to you? Speak!”

Hot tears ran down the boy’s face. He shook his head, trying to regain his words. 

“It’s not true...” he whispered, over and over, “It can’t be!”

He suddenly rallied hard to get free of Vader’s hold, putting all strength in the effort. His gaze darted to the dagger in Vader’s hand, and he lunged for it.

“Give it back!”

Vader blocked his attempt, then slammed his body to the ground, receiving a kick to the ribs in the process. The boy thrashed wildly and landed another blind punch on the side of his shoulder. Vader pulled out his red blade with a growl and swiftly drove it between the two bones of the boy’s lower arm, the arm which had managed the hit. Toivo screamed in agony and the Force screamed in protest. Vader ignored it. He left the dagger embedded in the boy’s arm, and hauled him up again, back thrust against the oak tree. Then, he pressed the white kyberblade in front of his face, so the boy could see his own eyes reflected in it. 

“Not mine!?…” He growled. “Think again, whelp!”

Vader took a scant breath, then channeled his magic through the secret sequence of sigils a war mage imbued their kyberstone with upon setting it in a blade. The dagger erupted in bright blue, giving indisputable proof it had been constructed by none other than its current wielder. The light blinded the struggling rebel; he gasped and shut his eyes. 

“You will pay for your involvement with the Rebellion. But, for touching this blade, boy,” he slammed Toivo violently against the tree again and hissed, “I will take your hands off first!”

Toivo had gone still, eyes opened wide against Vader’s gaze, face wet with tears. The Force screamed a warning at the magelord, again. He took a careful look at his foe. There was something… something unnerving in his features. No fear, only heartbreak and grief emanated from the boy in shockwaves; he was a pyre of live coal. Vader had no wish to delve into it further. He shifted the dagger to his throat.

“I will ask just one last time. Why do you have this?” then, as if struck by a premonition, he added in a low voice: “Who are you?”

“No one you want to know,” the boy muttered through gritted teeth. Vader pressed the dagger, and the edge bit into his neck. Toivo suppressed a scream and looked away in defiance, his neck tensed against the cold steel. As his blood touched the blade, the dagger’s hilt suddenly scalded Vader’s hand. 

He gasped sharply, then, taken back, grabbed his captive’s face to examine it with wide eyes. His hand shook visibly as a wild idea began taking hold in his mind. The Force sang in accord.

“You…” he whispered.

At this moment, the tall figure of a white-haired man burst into the clearing, hands high in the air.

“Stop! Let him go, Anakin! Set him down!”

Vader’s shock exploded in the Force. He swirled around, but kept his firm hold on the boy. 

“Obi-Wan…” he growled, and gripped the blade handle even tighter. The elderly man, finally catching his breath, shouted:

“He is your son, Anakin! He is your son...”

The truth rang out in the Force and cut him like a battle axe. Vader looked at the boy, limbs gone numb, then swiftly pulled the blade away from his neck, and set him down at the base of the oak tree. The youth collapsed with a grunt, trying to cradle his pierced arm. His blood had stained the broken ice beneath their feet like shards of a rusty mirror. 

“Obi-Wan…” Toivo whispered, his head turning weakly to the newcomer. “Why didn’t you tell me? ”

Vader rounded on the old man without another word. He lifted his kyberblade, and even if he hadn’t needed a verbal chant to set his spells in motion since he’d been a little boy, he chanted this incantation out loud with particular vehemence. The blade pulsated blue; the air swirled thick with magic, and an abrupt force swept Obi-Wan to slam him high into a frozen tree trunk. He fell to the ground with a thud and remained motionless. 

“Now stay down!” Vader yelled, then dropped to his knees beside the boy, casting the blue blade aside to place hands on his shoulders.

“Don’t…” the boy hissed, trying to jerk away. His face was as white as the snow. 

“I didn’t know…” Vader choked out and hurried to check on his arm. He did not dare pull the blade out without a healer, but he used what little healing he knew to stop the bleeding. He looked the boy over for other injuries. Luckily, the cut to his neck was shallow. Vader took in the dark bruise under his eye, the cut on his lip… and ground his teeth. The boy stared back, numb with shock. 

The Dark Lord hesitated for a few moments, that crucial event the Force had been hinting at descending upon him like a heavy judgement. He released Toivo from his hold, pulled his gauntlets off, then carefully lifted his helmet to set it aside. He sucked in a breath through gritted teeth to steel himself, then slowly turned around to face his child. His voice, no longer modified by the walls of the mask, cut softly in the still night.

“Will you give me your name… my son?”

Toivo, breathing shakily, took in the sight of his pallid, scarred face. Their eyes locked, blue on blue.

“You will be safe with me,” Vader continued, then brushed the matted blond strand away from his son’s eyes. “I will make things right.”

His son did not answer, but this time, he did not shrink away from his touch either, and Vader’s heart leapt with a twisted pang – a mix of pain and another sensation he had difficulty recognizing. 

He sensed Obi-Wan stirring in the distance. He cursed internally, then moved his palm over his son’s forehead, whispered a rune-word, and the boy went limp in his arms. He snatched his cloak off and wrapped it around him, careful not to agitate his arm, then sat him up against the oak tree. Obi-Wan was coming closer. Vader turned around and snarled:

“Stay away from us!”

The elderly man obeyed. Vader cast one last glance at his son to make sure he was safe, then jumped up and turned his attention on his old Master.

“Anakin…” Obi-Wan began.

“Do not call me that!” the scarred man hissed and pointed his blue blade at him. The threat was explicit.

“It is your name. Or have you entirely forgotten?”

Vader approached him with heavy, measured steps. 

“You took my child.”

“You were a danger to him!”

“That was not for you to decide!” Vader cried, his anger sending icy spindrifts in spirals before his steps.

“Anakin, listen to me… “

“My wife. What happened to my wife?”

Obi-Wan took a few seconds to reply.

“She is gone. I am sorry…”

A bitter smile spread on Vader’s scarred lips.

“Gone…”

He looked up at the darkening skies, trying to steady the tremor in his shoulders.

“She is gone… and the great Obi-Wan is sorry. Stars!” 

Vader’s expression turned grim. He was endlessly tempted to ask Obi-Wan his own son’s name, but held back. He would rather hear it from the boy himself, when he was ready.

“Luke… she named him Luke.”

“Stay out of my head!” Vader shouted back, but he savored his son’s real name like a life-giving elixir. 

“I am sorry she died, Anakin!”

“No…no! You are not sorry, and you never have been, old man. All you have done was for your own narrow benefit. And your  _brother_ Anakin has not forgotten. He has been howling in the back of my head for seventeen long years, forever burning on the banks of Mustafar where you left him for dead. And today, before he goes in peace — at last!… I will grant his final wish to send you his regards.”

Obi-Wan stepped back, shaken.

“I have no desire to fight you again...”

“You have no choice.”

Vader approached with his dagger held in attack position. Obi-Wan’s worn face did not betray any emotion. He slowly pulled out his own kyberblade and took a defensive stance. Vader circled him, his movements kept to a calculated minimum, and Obi-Wan recognized with a chill that the first mistake he made in this duel would cost his life, and he did not have the energy for the fight. Vader swung at him, and they exchanged a few cursory strikes and parries. Obi-Wan snuck a glance at Luke, wrapped in Vader’s cloak, unconscious and deathly pale against the rough bark of the oak tree. And he made his decision. 

“When you strike me down, I will become more powerful than you can possibly imagine.”

Vader gripped his blade tighter, but remained still. Obi-Wan lifted his arms slowly in the traditional sign of surrender, blade pointed down, and closed his eyes, awaiting the final blow. What he received was a pommel to the temple instead. He collapsed to the ground in a heap of brown wool and linen.

“That would have been a shame,” Vader grumbled, then stared at Obi-Wan’s face for a few long moments — just a tired old man with hair as white as snow. Oh, but he would make him pay for stealing his son…

Vader took his fallen master’s kyberblade, bound his hands behind his back and carried him to tie him up against a tree near the path. He would send men to fetch the old man later. And if the wolves got to him first… well, he ought to count himself exceedingly lucky.

Vader rushed back for the clearing and exhaled with relief when he found his boy (Luke – his name was Luke!) still leaned against the oak tree. He crouched down, his eyes eagerly taking in the youth’s face. The familiar jawline, the dimpled chin… He should have seen it immediately. His son looked too much like him — he had even inherited his colors. The truth had been in front of him all this time, but instead of taking notice, he’d almost killed the child.  _Her_ child. He begrudgingly thanked the Force for staying his hand. All he needed now was time — to make amends, to make things right. With time, his son would accept him. And together, with their combined power… they would rule the world.

Vader gently picked up Luke in his arms. The boy weighed next to nothing. He had probably been underfed for who knew how many years, and judging by his speech, grown up in some hovel… Calm, Vader needed to keep calm now. The magelord beckoned his warhorse over. He whispered a command, and the trained beast lowered itself down on one knee. Vader lifted the boy, positioned him in the saddle, then guided the horse to rise. He climbed up behind Luke, took the reins in one hand, the other clutching his son securely against his chest. He rearranged the cloak to fashion some padding between the hard scales of his armor and Luke’s head. That sharp pang blindsided him again, but this time, he recognized the feeling. He looked up to the stars and a whisper passed through his scarred lips. 

The magelord spurred the horse into a steady gallop, and soon, the fateful clearing remained far behind. Light clouds draped the stars over the frozen forest. Underneath the oak tree, alone in the glittering silence, snowflakes veiled the spikes of a magelord helmet like a wreath of moon-pearl starflowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of a mage traditionally wearing two swords was inspired by daishō (“big-little”) — the traditional matched pair of Japanese Samurai swords.  
> In this AU, the daitō, or the long sword, can be worn by anyone and used on the battlefield as you would expect. The shōtō — the smaller Samurai sword — became a dagger called a kyberblade (daitō + shōtō = daishō). Only a mage can construct a kyberblade, and the dagger is used exclusively matters involving the Force: spell casting and mage duels. 
> 
> To set a kyberstone in the blade, the mage designs a sequence of imagery and rune-words in a ritual that incidentally imbues the sword with a specific intent. It usually involves the maker’s strongest suit of magic, where the blade will have a particular affinity in the future. A kyberblade can glow faintly if it is near its maker, and its maker’s mind dwells on things that the blade has an affinity with. Unleashing the original intent (which can only be done by someone who knows the original sequence of imagery and rune-words) causes the kyberblade to shine brightly. In essence: the kyberblade is a very personal weapon.
> 
> Music for this chapter, inspired by another named sword: [Needle by Ramin Djawadi](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F876lMuScyg).


End file.
